Over twenty years ago there were two little girls in my preschool class, Michelle and Nicole. Sisters. Michelle was full of heart. She cried at The Runaway Bunny. She was always the star in our plays. I think her most memorable performance was Rapunzel, wearing a long knitted scarf as her hair. Nicole was ever-cheerful. She asked questions all the time, and constantly had a cluster of friends. Lunchtime conversations were always fascinating, thanks to Nicole.
Together, these two sisters embodied joy and heart and character.
Their mom, Anne, loved to bake. She came into the class and helped the children make sticky buns. That was really fun! Talk about a hands-on activity… the best. Then, Christmas came along. Anne and the girls showed up at my door on Christmas Eve with a delivery of sticky buns. I was so touched! And, oh were they ever good.
The girls grew older, too old for my preschool class. Yet, the following year another Christmas Eve delivery of sticky buns arrived at my door. And the following year, and the next, and on and on, and again this year:
As the years went by, we kept in touch about school, then the worry and excitement of college applications and acceptances. Then, there were new jobs, moving away from home, and changing jobs. Life was constantly changing and evolving, and we shared those stories together like family. Christmas Eve and the delivery of sticky buns became an annual get-together. We spend the evening sharing stories of loss and sorrow, health worries, joyous moments in life, and belly laughing over the funny, little things.
Always the best Christmas Eve.
My preschool children over twenty years ago are now like a family to me. In the words of their mother, Woo Hoo!